I haven’t written in a while. I am carving out space for it now because depression has begun to set in. I think that’s what you call this feeling. I can’t be sure. I have heard depression described as numbness, which this isn’t. It’s crankiness mixed with sadness with a sprinkle of despair, and I can’t shake it. This feeling, which I have experienced before, begins to create a feedback loop. I get home from class at noon, and instead of going to the gym or doing something fulfilling, I scroll on my phone. I look at the news app, which is riddled with the latest bombings and evil perpetrated by unfulfilled men who are saturated with every luxury they could dream of, and I feel sad and sheepish and ungrateful.

Last Sunday, I was waiting at the bus stop in the blazing heat with Nikki on our way to the hardware store to pick up cleaning supplies. When the bus arrived, we boarded through the rear door and sat down in the last row. At the front of the bus, there was loud talking between three men: an old white guy, a Bengali—or so I guessed because of his tanned skin and deep ice-blue eyes—and an emaciated street urchin with buck teeth. It’s often hard to tell if Italians are disagreeing or excited when you hear them talk in a group, and this was no different. All three were standing, trying to keep their balance as the bus swayed and speaking over each other. Quickly, it became clear that the Bengali was separating the other two, either arguing on behalf of the homeless guy or trying to calm the situation. The bus made a sharp turn, and all three faces swayed into view for a moment. The homeless guy had a terribly swollen eye, and from the corner of it, a thin, dark stream of blood was running down his face. It had yet to be wiped, and because it was so fresh, it was easy to picture it as a crack splitting the guy’s face in two. A woman produced a napkin, which was graciously taken by the homeless man, who used it to turn the thin stream into a gruesome, red mess smeared across his face.

The voices between all three men came to a crescendo, and the older man took what I guessed was another swing at the homeless guy’s face, only to be caught by the Bengali, who yelled at him to be calm. They continued to argue, and at the next stop, the older guy got off, shaking his head and brushing off the yelling Bengali. The Bengali man followed him off the bus and continued to demand something from the old man, while the homeless guy took a seat, blinking and blotting at his bloody face and eye.

He got off shortly after, and as he walked past my window, I saw him blink hard, pulling his head back and assessing the damage.

As the bus lurched forward, moving opposite of his walking direction, I worried for him. I hoped that he would seek help and that any damage he suffered would not be permanent. Nik and I talked about it after getting off the bus at our stop, and I shared my concerns for him. I did not wonder if he deserved to be hit in the face.

Today, on the way to the gym, miraculously, I saw him walking in front of me. I increased my gait until I was right behind him and said, “Scusi.”
“Come il tuo occhiali?” I asked. A sentence that means “How is your glasses?”

He stopped and stared at me while his mind translated my terrible Italian. He understood I was asking about his eye and brightened with the realization that I had witnessed the event—and for the concern someone had for him.

His mouth was a crazy log pile of rotten and missing teeth. His gaunt face reminded me of a horse. Before approaching him, I had heard him talking to himself, but he wasn’t crazy. His words to himself were just the final bit of exhaust that is produced when the brain burns alcohol and meth. He had the smell of someone who slept outside, a smell I like—a body without soap or deodorant, but who has been sterilized by the afternoon sunlight.

He launched into Italian. I nodded at the barrage, straining to understand every third word. “Bad,” “irritated,” “can’t see”… The eye that had been damaged was pointed inwards, while his working eye stared straight at me. He pulled the lid down to reveal an angry irritation.

“Mi dispiace, mi dispiace,” I said. “Ricordo.” — “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I remember.”

He took a step back and covered his bad eye with his palm and read the words on my gym shirt.
“Keend ov Blu, Meehiles Dahvees,” he sounded out, his Italian accent so authentic and pleasing. He then covered his other eye, the good one, and waved his hand at my chest: “Niente.” — “Nothing.”

Because his energy was that of annoyance at the issue and not that of dread or despair, I shook my head and made a “tsk” sound with my mouth, signaling mutual disappointment and frustration.

We parted naturally, the entire interaction happening in 30 seconds. Ten feet away from each other, he wished me “buona giornata” and not the usual “ciao.” His elevated farewell signaled his gratitude for my interest and concern.

My heart deeply ached the rest of the day, praying his misdirected, irritated eye would get better, and wondering if his damaged eye was pointing in a different direction before he was hit.

How dare I feel anything besides gratitude.
How dare I wallow in the free time I have.
How dare I worry about the future.
How dare I do nothing to help.

Suffering, cruelty, waste, injustice contrasted with my own freedom and privilege turns gratitude into shame. The emotional overload seeping out as sadness and irritability.

A man, hit, bleeding, blinking, muttering to himself, but still kind, still lucid, still able to recognize compassion becomes my buoy for an instant. Our two life rafts bumping into each other in the rolling darkness. Him providing a mirror for my own suffering and me offering the only humanity I can in remembering him and reminding him of what I witnessed.